Fluid Pudding : Page 88 of 122 : It's the old small talk!

Our tooth fairy brings Swedish Fish and a dollar.

Jeff has been in San Francisco this week, which means I’m currently parenting at a level of eight point five. (I normally hover at around five or six.) Eight point five means I often come down on the girls for not clearing their breakfast dishes, I clean the litter box every other day, and I’m prone to say things like “White Castle? Well, OKAY then!”

These Are The Things Jeff Missed This Week:

I melted down at the beginning of the week with that whole Mistake I Made and the aftershock stupidity waves and inadequacy quakes. (Jeff is not sorry that he missed this event.)

Harper took an important test and did really well, and she’s SUPER proud of herself. (We celebrated with White Castle, because I tend to reward achievement with POISON!)

Meredith performed in a reader’s theater production, and it was amazing to see how Capable and Talented seven and eight year olds can be. Afterward, she tried egg drop soup for the first time and loved it! (I have stuffed myself with crab rangoon twice in the past week. Jennifer Hudson is NOT happy with me right now.)

I received the most awesome early birthday present ever from my friend Lisa M. Look at what I’m wearing on my finger.

It’s a Shy Siren ring and it’s my favorite color, and it looks like a pumpkin, and although I’m not one who squeals, I actually squealed when I opened the box. Thanks again, Lisa. I do believe this is the happiest piece of jewelry I’ve ever worn.

Harper’s been walking around with a knee-buckling loose tooth for the past several days. Unlike Meredith, who was always able to simply reach into her mouth and yank out her teeth, Harper, like me, would much rather someone remove the tooth for her as she sleeps. I gave it a try a few nights back, but honestly? My shuddering and dancing and vomiting prevented me from getting a good grip. When she told me that the school nurse occasionally pulls teeth, I joked around that she may not return to my home until she visits Nurse Carol. Let me just say this: Thank God for Teachers. Yesterday afternoon, Harper’s kindergarten teacher sent her down to the nurse’s office, where the nurse reached in, removed the tooth, and placed it in a tiny treasure box, thereby eliminating my perceived need for Xanax and/or Select 55. When I asked Harper if I could take a photo of her to commemorate the loss of her first tooth, she opted for a video so she could reenact The Moment and the happiness that followed.

Jeff will be back in approximately six hours. I have chosen to celebrate his return with falafel.
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Tonight I gave a cake ball to someone who has never had one. (I’d like to buy the world a Coke.)

My mom and I had lunch at Buffalo Wild Wings this afternoon, and I ordered what I always order: Grilled Chicken Buffalitos without the chicken. (I hit the nine month mark of being meat-free last week! The Buffalitos don’t need the chicken if they have the sauce!) Anyway, when our order arrived, my Buffalitos had chicken. I sent them back. About ten minutes later, my lunch arrived again. With chicken. By that time, my mom had already eaten over half of her meal, so I told the server to simply forget it. All of this to say: My MOM had lunch at Buffalo Wild Wings this afternoon. I ended up going through the Taco Bell drive thru for a bean burrito. I had a beef with the chicken, but no chicken OR beef with the burrito. All is well.

This evening I went to a meeting, and when I returned to my car, I found that at least three geese (or one especially productive goose) had emptied their bowels onto my car. (I know!) I had planned to wash my car this afternoon, but never got around to it. I’ll do it tomorrow. Again, all is well.

After the meeting, I went to Walgreens to stock up on snacks, and when I stepped out of my car, I stepped into a puddle of vomit. Luckily, there was a wet rug outside of Walgreens (I have no idea why), and I was able to thoroughly clean my shoe before stepping back into my car. All? Well!

Harper has an exciting day planned for tomorrow. I have plans for lunch with a friend and a haircut. Meredith has an exciting day planned for Thursday. I have plans to attend her play as well as her field trip. Also, this evening I was elected PTO Treasurer for the 2011-2012 school year, and I have enough cocoa dusted almonds to stuff a swollen starling! (Thanks to all who checked in with me yesterday. I do appreciate it!)

Oh! Wait! EDITED TO ADD the fact that I also got a new pair of shoes on the cheap! (No WONDER the gray skies are starting to clear up!)

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I need a shirt that says, “Case of the Mondays.” Actually, no I don’t.

Do you ever do that thing where you think you’ve made a good decision, and then it becomes clear that what you REALLY did was screw things up? Suddenly, your stomach begins to clench up and your head feels hot and as much as I hate the word Stupid, well, you just feel so stupid? That has happened twice in my life. The first time was after my family had said their goodbyes and driven back to St. Louis, leaving me in Nashville where I knew no one and couldn’t even find my way to the grocery store without referring to my infamous index cards on which I had written directions to and from anything I might possibly need. (Including the nearest Bar-B-Cutie.)

The second time was today. I’ve spent the past eight or so hours feeling incredibly sorry and guilty and, well, stupid. And although I had my Xanax prescription refilled over the weekend (for the first time since 2009! I am not a junkie!), I can’t find that bottle of pills anywhere! AND, I refuse to call Walgreens or my doctor because I ALREADY feel Stupid, and I really don’t want to keep rolling that feeling around in the snow.

Also, my cat is sick. Because she has herpes (really, I’m not making this up), she tends to respond to stress by having really intense sneezing fits. Every time she goes to the vet for an annual exam, she spends the next four to seven days sneezing. On Saturday morning, she got her head stuck in a bag handle, and when she took a step and the bag hit her in the butt, she took off running 392 miles per hour. When I finally tracked her down and cut the bag off of her, she stayed under the bed for three hours, and has been sneezing ever since.

I want to thank each and every one of you for the backpack suggestions. I’ve taken so many notes in the past few days regarding different websites and organizations, and it makes me feel good to know that I was right: Fluid Pudding Readers Know What’s Up. I’m going to take this information back to the school and see what they would like me to do. Thanks for being so amazing.

Because the second of May continues to jab me with rusty forks, please know that my glasses fell off of my face and into the litter box earlier this evening. I have since washed the heck out of them, but as I sit here at the computer, I can’t help but feel like my eyes are smelling sort of flowery. Littery. Luckily, the glasses fell as I was making one of those zen stone garden designs in the clean litter with the shovel. (I believe it helps the cats to achieve enlightenment each and every time they do their business.)

The kids are in bed, and I have no idea if it’s safe to turn the television back on. I think it’s a good night for knitting on my migraine doc’s shawl and listening to a knitting podcast or two. (By the way, Ellen rolled her eyes a bit at knitting earlier today. I almost felt like she was rolling her eyes at me. Really. It has been that kind of day, Annie.)
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Anything that you might need, I’ve got inside for you!

A few months ago, I found myself standing in line with a woman whose daughter is currently a first year kindergarten teacher in Texas. About a week into the school year, the daughter called home to talk about a boy in her class who always claimed to have forgotten his backpack. Every afternoon, the teacher would ask the kids to put their papers into their backpacks, and every afternoon the boy would say, “I forgot my backpack!” When the teacher finally asked how she could help him to remember his backpack, the boy looked at his feet and admitted that he didn’t have a backpack at all, because his mom didn’t have the money.

The teacher went out that night and bought the boy a backpack. (The woman standing behind me in line said that the teacher should NOT have done this, which I thought was interesting. I would have bought the backpack.)

Anyway. It recently came to my attention that there are some kids in the girls’ school who are without backpacks for the same reason. AND, a few of us want to fix that.

I’ve been searching the internet for inexpensive backpacks (not the drawstring kind) that can be purchased in bulk, and although there are quite a few sites that offer such a thing, I hesitate before ordering because of bad site reviews posted elsewhere on the internet. My sister told me to go to a place like WalMart, tell them the situation and how I want to keep the purchase local, and see what they could offer.

Before I do that, I want to throw it out to you, because you tend to have the exact information that I need. Do you know where I could get something like twenty backpacks for a decent price? Any advice would be appreciated.

AND, now I’m going to take your hand and drag you to the other side of the room to show you the bracelet I received in the mail today. When I turned 30, Jeff sent flowers to me at work. Inside the card, he had written, “I’m in love with the world through the eyes of a girl.” (It’s the opening line from my very favorite Elliott Smith tune.) Now that we have two daughters, that line carries even more meaning than it did when Jeff and I were dating. Anyway, I found an Etsy store that sells customized bracelets. A little more than a week later, here I sit with the greatest bracelet I’ve ever owned—a bracelet so great that it prompted me to make an eighteen second video to celebrate its existence.

From here to there to here: We’re currently two birthday parties down, with only one to go. May Day.

Any advice on the backpack thing? I thank you in advance!
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If you skate, you would be great if you could make a figure eight.

When Meredith was less than 24 hours old, she had already figured out how to kick her feet up to get comfortable.

The new parents in the surrounding rooms loved to poke their heads into my room to ask if they could see “the ten pound baby.”

One mom even brought her tiny six pound baby in, placed her next to Meredith on my bed, and took a bunch of photos. (I’m *still* not completely sure how I feel about that.)

Eight years have passed, and Meredith is still larger than life. She dances every day, sometimes taking breaks to sit down with a notebook to design clothing or coffee cups, she has a knack for writing great stories, and her love of King’s Hawaiian Sweet Rolls is unmatched.

Happy Birthday, Meredith Claire. (And happy birthday to you, Jerry Seinfeld, Eve Plumb, and Uma Thurman.)
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I show my innards every April 28th! Tradition, Tevya!

Ah, here we are again—looking at my insides!

I’m here to remind you that six years ago today, this happened:

I’m pleased to report that my scarring (both emotional and physical! Whee!) is minimal, and my souvenir is now a beautiful six-year-old named Harper Rose.

Harper is intelligent, considerate, and creative. AND, if you look closely, you’ll notice that she enjoys giving off that Subtle Rock Star vibe.

Every year we let Harper decide where to have dinner on her birthday. This evening we’ll be dining Beastie Boys style at White Castle.

Happy Birthday, Harper Rose! (And happy birthday to you, too, Harper Lee!)
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I don’t care who designed Kate’s dress.

Harper will be six tomorrow, and I have a field trip with Meredith’s class (Chinese Buffet!). Meredith will be eight on Friday, and I have a field trip with Harper’s class (Zoo!). We have two birthday parties scheduled for Saturday and one for Sunday. Things are hectic, but it’s a Happy Hectic.

“Oh! Wait a second,” you may say, “I have noticed a glaring omission in your List o’ Hectic! Prince William! Kate Middleton! Have you no desire to put on a hat and participate in the jollification? EVEN ANDERSON COOPER WILL BE THERE!”

Oh, Internet. I will not be dragging myself out of bed to watch the royal wedding (or The Royal Wedding, depending on how much oomph you feel this event deserves). I dragged myself out of bed when I was eleven years old to watch Prince Charles marry Lady Diana, and I do remember it as being sort of perfect as I sat wrapped up in a blanket on the couch next to my mom. But listen. Times have changed. I’ll be 41 in a few weeks, and at this moment I can’t think of many things that excite me so much that I would leave my bed. I’m TIRED!

Okay. The Following Things Would Excite Me So Much That I Would Leave My Bed:
1. A midnight showing of Amélie complete with complimentary sweet potato pancakes and bottomless chai tea lattes. (Click on the link. It will take you to one of my favorite scenes from the movie. It never fails to bring tears to my eyes.)

2. Schmutzie has a pair of new Stefanies she’d like to give me for twenty bucks if I can meet her at a coffee/pancake dump at two in the morning.

3. Mumford and Sons are playing in my back yard, Tina Fey has set up a burrito stand, and Jimmy Fallon is hanging out by the fence with a Pocket Full of H’s!

4. Unexpected movement of the detritus that tends to sit motionless in my intestinal switchbacks.
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Ghandi does not rhyme with Tuesday.

I just spent nearly 30 seconds trying to think of a word that rhymes with Tuesday. When I didn’t feel like wasting any more of my time (It’s worth over twenty bucks an hour at times! Other times? It’s worth absolutely nothing! You’ll never hear me complain!), I typed a search into the Internet. I was told that Ghandi rhymes with Tuesday. I’m no poet/songwriter/seamstress/cook/etc., but I DO know that pairing up Tuesday and Ghandi is a stretch. Blues day. Goons day. You stay. Anyway.

This Easter was the worst Easter I’ve ever had. Seriously. Ever. It had nothing to do with lack of eggs or candy or fellowship or amazing food, because we had all of that. It had everything to do with this little puppy and how we got her on Friday but had to take her back on Monday, and who knew my heart could bust up SO MUCH after spending less than 72 hours with a muffin-footed hound?

I won’t talk about the reasons why we had to take her back, because it tears me up and I don’t need additional help in the tearing up department. I’ll just say this: She’s an awesome dog, and is at the Maryland Heights Humane Society in St. Louis. (They call her Candy. We called her Beezus.) Go adopt her. She’s a super-quick learner and sleeps through the night without whining! She’s great with cats AND with kids. She’ll even take a nap on you if she feels the urge.

Let’s change the subject. In about an hour I have a doctor appointment during which we’ll be talking about cutting something weird off of my hip. (I’m purposefully going to leave you hanging, because the only thing I can think of that rhymes with Cellulitis is Norman Fell? You bite us!) I’m hoping we can get through the appointment without me having to remove my pants. In other words, Typical Tuesday for Angela Pudding. (Yes. Typical Ghandi.)

For the first time in a long time, I’m going to not allow comments on a post. This post. First off? Because of Beezus and how her leaving has made me more than sort of sad. Secondly? Because I don’t want to hear what else might rhyme with Tuesday. Or Cellulitis. Enjoy your Ghandi. (Until you fight us.)
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We’ve got an 11-96 and a 5150 at The Pudding House.

On Monday morning, at approximately 8:27, the girls and I exited the house for the drive to school and quickly noticed a man sitting in his car right by our mailbox. I looked at him. He looked at me. I gave him the roughed up “Dude. This is MY house. Move it along.” raised eyebrow action. He didn’t flinch.

I quickly corralled the girls into the car, loaded their favorite Selena Gomez song onto the iPod, and slowly backed down the driveway. When I was parallel with Suspicious Vehicle and Man Inside, I made it clear that I was writing down his license plate number in one of the 38 tiny notebooks that I keep with me at all times.

I dropped the girls off at school and called Jeff, who took down the plate number and description of the car and the guy. He then alerted the police, because we’ve already had one person die at our house, and Better Safe Than Sorry.

I killed fifteen minutes (The drive to school takes about five minutes.) before re-entering our subdivision. The car was Still There. Instead of turning onto our street, I drove straight and looped around until I found myself in a Dairy Queen parking lot.

Me (to myself. Soliloquy!): Okay. I need to keep driving by the house to see what he’s doing, but I’ve got on this bright yellow sweater thing (which seems severely unflattering lately. Perhaps I should give it away?) and these black glasses. I need to shake it up to become unrecognizable so the guy doesn’t notice me driving past him every twenty minutes!

Me (on the phone with Jeff): Do you know of a place that can alter the appearance of our car in less than fifteen minutes?

Jeff (always dealing with me in the nicest way possible): No.

I then did what anyone would do in this situation. I took off the top half of my clothes in the Dairy Queen parking lot, removed my glasses, and tousled my hair until it looked exactly the same, only a bit more AWESOME. I then put my black t-shirt back on, sat up, and drove back to the subdivision.

Still there. Once again, I went straight instead of turning. This time, *I* called the police, and a woman who was in NO MOOD for chit-chat told me that an officer was on the way. (I suppose I’m sort of glad to know that the lady who dispatches the calls doesn’t like to spend time gabbing on the phone with people like me.) I headed straight to the Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot, where I noticed a manager unloading a few boxes from his truck. (What could he be bringing in from home? Straws? Lids? Those Delicious Biscuits?!)

From the KFC lot, I called my neighbor to let her know what was going on. She said she was going to get a better look at the guy just in case we would need to identify him at some point.

People, this was getting Exciting. In my world, where the biggest adrenalin rush occurs when I have lunch plans AND a batch of cake balls that need to be made, having a potential menace in front of my house is Heavy and Invigorating. I drove into the subdivision again. Still there. Still There! (This was about thirty minutes after I spoke to Mrs. No Nonsense at the Police Department.)

Me (on the phone with Jeff): Damnit! He’s STILL THERE! And I think he saw me. I’ve driven into the subdivision THREE TIMES NOW, and I’m supposed to be meeting my mom for lunch in less than an hour and I’ve been driving AROUND for nearly an hour and I STILL HAVEN’T APPLIED MASCARA! I NEED TO GO HOME!!!

Jeff told me that he would place a sane follow-up call to the police to see what was going on, because really: I’m sure our fish is a small fish compared to the other fish they have to fry.

I slowly drove back into the subdivision and wound my way around until I was parked on a side street where I could see Potential Danger, but he couldn’t see me. (I really need to have a hat made that says Bird Dog to wear during my imaginary super sleuth adventures.)

Suddenly, my phone rang and scared The Crap out of me. It was Jeff.

Jeff: Go home. He’s a detective.

Me: He’s a what?!

Jeff: All they could tell me is that he’s a private detective and at this point you’re being doubly protected.

Me: Doubly Protected?! What is he DOING?

Jeff: Well, I told them that I didn’t feel good knowing that a detective is parked in front of our house, but they assured me that everything is okay.

Over an hour after I took the kids to school, I returned home—wearing completely different clothes, no glasses, and with screwed up hair. When I looked down at the guy in his car, he rolled down his window and quickly flashed his badge at me. I cautiously approached him. (Probably not so cautiously, actually. Cautious is hard to manage when your lashes are in need of definition and you’re carrying your clothes. Embrace Your Whimsy.)

Me: Yeah, so, I’m sorry I called the police on you. It’s just that I HAVE DAUGHTERS.

(Really. I said that.)

Detective: I get it.

He then rolled up his window, which told me that he didn’t have time for my breeze shooting.

And that’s HIS loss, because I was going to offer him some cake balls. (If you give me an inch, I tend to take a yard.)
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Warning: I’m about to Mommyblog it out over here!

A few months back, it was brought to our attention that the school district’s literary magazine was accepting submissions, and that this year’s theme was Discovery. I talked to Harper, and she decided that she would love to write a poem. Because her class had recently written a few sensory poems, that style was fresh in her head.

Harper: Discovery smells like pizza.

Me: What kind of pizza?

Harper: Sausage pizza!

Me: Yes! I like that it’s sausage. Where do you get Discovery Sausage Pizza?

Harper: Disney World!

Me: Is there anything else you want to add about the pizza so everyone can picture it in their head?

Harper: It’s JUICY!

We continued back and forth until the poem was written and submitted. I’m pleased to report that Harper’s Discovery Poem was selected for inclusion in the magazine, and she was able to read it at last night’s reception.

As she was getting ready for bed, I asked her how it feels to be a published writer at age five. She answered, “Well, I’m not so sure I want to be famous, but I like that we went to Dairy Queen to celebrate.”
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